


From the Sidelines

by Nelsynoo



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, mainly just fluff, only a little angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-22 03:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12472068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelsynoo/pseuds/Nelsynoo
Summary: A loose companion story to Someplace Other Than Home - this time from Fiona's point of view as she contemplates her life, the mistakes she's made, and her first tentative steps toward building a relationship with her son.Features some canon-typical angst but mainly fluffiness.





	From the Sidelines

**Author's Note:**

> A lovely person left a comment on my fic, [Someplace Other Than Home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8850109/chapters/20294380), saying that they couldn’t wait for Alistair to reach Skyhold so that we could see him interact with his mum. And the comment made me feel really guilty because I have A LOT of Alistair/Fiona feelings but I knew I wouldn’t be able to fit all those feelings into that fic given the plans I’d already sketched out.
> 
> And so I wrote this! 
> 
> I guess you don’t NEED to have read Someplace Other Than Home to understand this story but it probably helps since there are several mentions of Bron, an OC character first introduced in that fic.

Fiona keeps track of her son as best she can.

She hadn’t planned to at first; she’d planned on handing him over to Arl Eamon and then carrying on with her life as if the baby had never existed. It’s better this way, right? A clean break – both mother and son starting their lives afresh, unencumbered by the burdens of the other. 

It doesn’t last long.

She’s just too curious – is he happy? Is he healthy? Does he take after her in any way or does he only resemble his father? (and he had _so clearly_ resembled King Maric in those fleeting early days they’d spent together; with his mop of sandy hair and his cheeky, carefree smiles).

She asks Duncan to keep an eye on him and he gladly agrees – anything for a friend – supplying Fiona with little dribs and drabs of information as her son, Alistair, grows from squalling bundle of pink to precocious toddler and then boisterous child. 

At first it’s good news. Arl Eamon takes good care of him; he is well fed; he is tall and strong for his age. But as time goes by things seem to deteriorate. Eamon’s Arlessa does not look kindly on the boy - she is suspicious of his parentage, jealous of the attention that Eamon gives him – and poor Alistair finds himself relegated to the stables then, even worse, to the Chantry.

It’s not the life Fiona had wanted for her son but then she’d lost the right to decide his future when she’d handed him over to the Arl.

But still, there are worse fates than the Chantry. At least he’ll get a good education; he’ll be well cared for, fed and housed. Maybe he’ll even enjoy it – the discipline, the structure, the comradeship of living and working with his Templar brothers. Yes – there are worse fates than the Chantry.

And then she hears the news from Duncan – _Alistair has joined the Wardens_ – and her heart sinks, aches for the future that awaits him. Because Fiona knows what it means to be a Warden. It means sacrifice, it means responsibility, it means a short, hard life followed by a lonely death in the depths of the Deep Roads.

Fiona had joined the Wardens because, as a talented and precocious young mage, it had seemed preferable to a lifetime trapped within the stone confines of the Circle. And she’d found contentment with the Wardens; she’d found a sense of purpose, she’d found friends who’d in time become her family. But she’d lost so much as well; her health, her freedom, _her son_. And then, when the taint had miraculously been lifted from her, she’d been rejected by the Order, by the only family she’d ever known, and found herself back in the Circle where she’d started.

Fiona wants better for her son – she wants him to have freedom, to have a family.

But there’s nothing she can do; nothing to do except watch from a distance and hope for better things. _She hopes that he’s happy_.

And then things get worse.

Much, _much_ worse.

The Wardens are defeated at Ostagar – her friends and former comrades slaughtered in their hundreds by an unstoppable tide of Darkspawn. And she weeps for her friends, for Duncan, but mostly for the son who’d perished before he’d barely had the chance to live.

But then she starts to hear rumours; not _all_ the Wardens were killed at Ostagar. Two Wardens now remain, the newly orphaned daughter of Teryn Cousland and Maric’s bastard son. And the news brings only a fleeting moment of joy before she starts to hear more rumours – she hears of a Landsmeet, a duel which sees Teyrn Loghain fall from grace, and a Warden who refuses to let the disgraced General join the Order.

Her son is too bent on honour, too certain of the purity of the Wardens (and Fiona knows better; Fiona knows that the honour and purity of the Wardens only goes so far. She was with them long enough to understand the darkness, the _dirtiness_ that lies beneath the royal blue and gleaming silverite of their uniforms). 

And so Alistair is exiled (at least not executed, thank the Maker!) and Fiona weeps. Because now he really is far beyond her reach. For nearly 20 years she’s been able to watch over her son from a distance, to follow his journey from wriggling babe to strapping young man. But now he leaves across the Waking Sea, sailing to places she cannot follow, and she wonders whether she will ever hear of him again.

She hopes that he’s safe; she hopes that he’s happy.

* * *

Fiona hears nothing for years – not that she’d expected to. Alistair is gone, exiled across the Waking Sea, and she had no friends, no allies in the Free Marches to keep track of her wayward son.

She thinks of him often, of course, hoping, _dreaming_ against all odds that he has found some purpose in his exile, some comfort, perhaps even started a family. She imagines him with a smiling wife and two fat, curly-haired children, maybe in a cottage near the sea, where the children can draw pictures in the sand with their toes and catch rainbow-coloured crabs in the rockpools.

It’s a nice thought – this image of blissful domesticity – and she clings onto it even as Thedas falls into madness all around her. 

There’s a spark of revolution in Kirkwall, mages rising up against their Templar oppressors and burning the Gallows to the ground, and soon that flame spreads from Circle to Circle, frustrated mages fighting for their long-lost freedom with ice and with thunder.

Fiona leads them, both excited and terrified at the prospect that finally, _finally_ , the mages of Thedas might be seen as they truly are – as _people_ , fully-formed beings with the same desires and rights as any other living creature. But the fighting is brutal, the Templars relentless in their hunt, and Fiona finds herself leading her frightened people to Fereldan, to Redcliffe, in the hope that she might find some protection there.

Mistakes are made.

Awful, _stupid_ mistakes.

And Fiona feels the bitter bite of shame as she sees her followers shackled to the Tevinter Imperium, conscripted against their will to serve as a Magister’s army. She hadn’t meant for things to end up this way – she’d only wanted to _protect her people_. 

Instead she’d doomed them.

At least – for a time. Before salvation comes; before the Inquisition.

Thank the Maker for the Inquisition! And bless Andraste for her Herald – the young elven woman bristling under the weight of her newly acquired title and responsibilities. And while this young woman, Eleri, is clearly annoyed by the mages’ alliance with the Tevinter Imperium, her eyes scornful and lips pulled thin with disapproval, her voice is filled with warmth when she speaks with Fiona. She promises them aid, she promises them protection amongst the Inquisition, and all she asks in return is for the mages to lend her their power.

Fiona gladly accepts – astonished beyond all belief to find succour in the middle of a civil war, to find compassion and understanding when all she has ever received as a mage is scorn. But Skyhold is a place of new beginnings, where the lost and the liars find a new purpose among the holy and righteous. Where people from every corner of Thedas, from every level in the social strata, from mages to Ben-Hassrath, can find unity in a common goal. 

She hasn’t had much time to think of Alistair – too busy trying to keep the mages together, to serve the Inquisition to the best of her abilities, to make amends for the terrible mistakes she’d made at Redcliffe.

And then, somehow, _he’s here_.

It’s just a rumour at first, and she dismisses it almost out of hand, but unlike some of the other rumours she’s heard, this one is persistent – a hushed whisper on the lips of all she meets.

_There’s a Warden in Skyhold_.

It can’t be him, she reasons with herself. There are thousands of Wardens across Thedas; it can’t be him. Does Alistair even count as a Warden anymore? He’s an exile – no more tied to the Order than she is. And he’s not even _in_ Ferelden anymore. Of that she is sure.

But the more she listens, the more she learns: the Warden Alistair, Alistair Theirin – exile, royal bastard – and her heart skips a beat. He’s here, _he’s here_!  
  
She doesn’t believe it – _she can’t_. 

Until she sees him – from a distance, at first. And even though she hasn’t seen him since he was just a babe, she _knows_ it’s him. He looks so much like his father. The gentle curl of his sandy hair, the kind eyes and strong, handsome jaw. She _knows_ it’s him. 

He’s quieter than she would have liked. She wants him to smile – that wide, cheeky grin that Maric used to wear, the smile she remembers with such _aching_ clarity. Instead he looks haunted, a little uncomfortable, like a misshapen puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit in at Skyhold. And she knows how that feels; she’s hardly the most welcome presence in Skyhold. Not just a mage but a mage who’d been tricked by the Venatori, who’d willingly allied herself with a Tevinter Magister.

She spends a lot of time watching him, too scared to talk to him, to even introduce herself. What do you even say to the son you long ago abandoned? To the son you never thought you would actually ever meet? And besides, it’s hard to catch him on his own – either he’s hiding in his room or he’s trailing along behind that Inquisition scout, the one with the long, black braid and the cold, expressionless face.

When she does finally find him alone, sitting on a bench in the Chantry gardens, she’s tempted to just walk by, to leave him in peace and spare him the inconvenience of her interruption. But she knows that she’s just being a coward, too scared to find out the answers to questions she has long desired to ask – perhaps he is miserable, perhaps he resents the difficult, lonely life he has led. Perhaps she does not want to know just how much she has let him down.

She steps toward him before her courage has the chance to flee, her feet hurrying across the grass until she stands primly in front of him. “Hello,” she says, a little rushed, a little frantic, and he starts slightly at the sound of her voice.

“Hello,” he responds, eyes shifting from side to side, clearly curious as to her intention, perhaps wondering whether she’d made a mistake in approaching him. “Can I help you?”

“You’re the Warden that arrived recently?” she asks, though it sounds more like a statement than a question.

He sighs as he shrugs, as if he’s been asked the same question a million times and is quickly losing patience with it. “ _Ex_ -Warden, yes,” he responds a little snappishly, though it’s clear from the softness of his expression that he’s trying valiantly not to appear irritated.

“You don’t consider yourself a Warden anymore?” she asks with genuine curiosity, mildly amused by the strange twist in fate that has led to both mother and son finding themselves alienated from the Order.

“No – not anymore – when I was exiled…” his words trailed off, he gestures vaguely with his hand. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not a Warden; I’m just… Alistair.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Alistair,” she says with a slight bow. “My name’s Fiona. I’m also an ex-Warden.”

His interest is piqued then and he straightens where he sits, head cocked to the side as he contemplates what she just said. “You left the Order? I’ve not heard of many who do so… How? _Why_?”

“I was cured from the Taint – and my Warden comrades no longer wanted me around. Maybe they thought I’d cheated death,” she shrugs to confer a nonchalance she doesn’t feel; the sting of her brothers’ rejection hurts even now after all these years. “I thought I could do more good in the Circle – so I returned to Montsimmard.”

“How were you cured?”

“I don’t know – no one does. It was a mystery even to the wisest of the Wardens. All I know is that the Taint is gone and the Joining has no effect on me.”

He nods then, brows knit in thought. “I’ve never heard of a Warden cured of the Taint. No one ever mentioned you.”

“The Wardens like their secrets,” she says, voice mildly reproachful.

He chuckles ruefully then and Fiona decides she likes the sound – it’s nice to hear him laugh; even tentatively.

“That they do,” he says, the tips of his lips curling in the barest hint of a smile.

There’s a slight pause as Fiona struggles to think of what to say next. She hopes that maybe he will ask a question, make at least some attempt in carrying on the conversation. Instead he simply stares up at her expectantly, probably curious as to why she decided to introduce herself in the first place.

“May I sit?” she asks as she gestures to the empty side of the bench.

He shifts uncomfortably. “I’m waiting for someone,” he replies with an apologetic slant of his eyes.

“That’s all right,” she says quickly, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just… I thought I would introduce myself as a fellow Warden, or _Ex_ -Warden as you prefer.” She turns to leave, deciding that this is perhaps enough conversation for one day.

“Wait!” he calls, standing from his seat and extending his hand to her imploringly, “I didn’t mean to be rude. You can stay for a while.”

“No, no,” she retorts, waving away his apology with a flick of her wrist, “you’re meeting someone and I don’t want to get in the way. But I…” she pauses, thinks, starts again, “may I ask you a... slightly odd question?”

His brows curl for a moment, lips twisted in confusion, but then he nods cautiously.

“Are you... are you _happy_?” she finally asks.

He lets out an amused puff of air. “That _is_ an odd question,” he says, then pauses for a long time as he considers, eyes sweeping over her from head to toe as if trying to decipher the motive behind her question. “Yes,” he finally answers, “I suppose I am happy. Happy enough, I guess.”

She nods once, “good,” and it _is_ good. Because all she has ever wanted is for him to be happy, to be content and safe. And though she can see the reservation in the soft slant of his eyes, hear it in the questioning lilt of his voice, she is glad that he is - despite everything - at least seemingly content.

Satisfied with her answer, she turns and scurries from the Chantry garden without even an attempt at farewell. She doesn’t look back to see Alistair’s expression as she leaves, though she’s sure he must be watching her retreat with confusion.

It’s not much. But it’s a start.

It’s a tentative step toward… well, _what_? A step toward friendship?

She can’t imagine ever telling him who she is – can’t imagine ever confessing that she is his mother – but she hopes that, well maybe, they could have _some sort_ of relationship, now that he’s here with her in Skyhold. Some tentative friendship, some gentle sense of comradeship.

That would be nice, right?

* * *

Before she's had the chance to talk to him again, he’s gone. She’s not sure where – the Inquisitor’s inner circle does not share all their comings and goings with the mages – but she knows it has something to do with the Venatori, and that they’re going to be gone for some time.

It’s nearly two months later when he finally returns, and it’s a relief to be finally freed from the persistent gnawing of worry in the pit of her stomach. It’s silly really – to worry so much over such a short absence. Until recently she hadn’t seen him for nearly 30 years! And if she’d learned to deal with his absence for that long – she can learn to deal with a mere two months! But things are _different_ now – now that she’s met her son, now that she’s _talked_ to him. He almost feels more _real_. Before he was merely a fantasy, a longing dream of the family she would never have, not as a Warden, certainly not as a mage. Now he’s flesh and blood, with his gentle smiles and polite words. 

He doesn’t just live in her imagination; he’s right here in front of her. So – yes – she worries.

When she finally sees him it’s... well, _delightful_ , and not just because it’s a relief to see him safe and sound, but because he seems… more at ease. Two months travelling with the Inquisition has changed him – he’s made friends, he’s found a role to fill. He smiles more now, crooked and boyish, just like his father. And he laughs, not polite and stilted but loud and full-throated.

It’s the most beautiful sound she has ever heard.

It’s remarkable, really, how quickly he has come to fit in with the Inquisition. Soldiers stop to chat when Alistair walks across the training yard, scouts wave when they pass him on the battlements, and whenever she sees him in the Great Hall, he’s always surrounded by people. He tells jokes with Varric, the famed dwarven storyteller (whose books she’s never actually read despite having seen them smuggled into every Circle she’s been in), and laughs heartily as he’s teased by Kirkwall’s Champion.

It turns out her son is good with people; he has a natural charisma. She’d never known that about him.

And now she does.

Just like that – she learns a little more about her son, about his personality, about his character. Piece by piece, her son becomes more and more real. No longer is he the man of her imagination, with his seaside cottage and fictitious family, but a real person with character traits she is slowly gleaning from a distance.

She talks to him whenever she can – little _hellos_ and _how are yous_. She’ll ask him mundane questions and in return he’ll tell her about his day. It’s not a lot – nothing soul-searching – but it’s more than she ever thought she would have and it’s… nice.

It’s enough.

All she wants is for him to be happy. And she can see that he is.

He’s happy with his friends, happy with his place within the Inquisition – even happy with his sour-faced friend, as much as that confuses her.

Fiona’s _tried_ talking to Bron, tried to understand the woman who brought her son back from exile (and to whom, Fiona supposes, she should feel eternally indebted), but it’s _hard_. Bron is polite but certainly not warm – she takes the time to greet Fiona as she passes through the library to meet with Leliana in the rookery, but rarely stops for a proper conversation. And when they _do_ talk, it’s perfunctory, _professional_ , Bron’s face never betraying anything except a weirdly calm pleasantness.

No, Fiona does not understand her son’s apparent devotion to Bron. She finds the woman odd. His friendship with Varric makes sense, and Hawke. Both people are lively and convivial, smiling and joking with the same ease as Alistair. But Bron? She seems a peculiar match.

But the more she sees them together (and they spend _a lot_ of time together), the more she can see how immensely fond Alistair is of Bron. Smiles come to Alistair easily, but they are widest when he’s smiling at Bron. And while his eyes are always expressive, they stare at Bron with an almost wide-eyed amazement, like a child seeing snow for the first time.

She has her suspicions as to the true depths of his feelings, but it’s not until she sees the two of them one day in the training yard, talking and laughing, standing so intimately close that it feels almost invasive to watch them, that she knows, _she knows_.

Alistair says something, and though Fiona is standing too far away to hear his words, she _can_ hear Bron’s delighted squeal of laughter as he lunges toward her with outstretched arms. And it seems _bizarre_ , hearing Bron’s laughter when Fiona had assumed the woman incapable of such a carefree sound. Bron darts out of Alistair’s reach, giggling the whole time, and then she’s off, tearing across the yard and running up the steps to the battlements. Alistair is close behind, face alight with elation, and when he finally catches up to her, he sweeps her up in his arms, twirling her around before settling her back on her feet, holding her body close to his chest. They stand for a time and stare at each other, laughing with the ease of old friends.

Fiona knows then that it’s love. She may not know her son that well but his expressions are so open, his features so easy to read even for a relative stranger like herself, and she knows _without a doubt_ that he is in love.

It’s a wonderful revelation. A marvellous, heart-warming, ecstatic revelation. Because that’s all she’s ever really wanted for her son – for him to be happy, for him to be loved. And despite her reservations regarding Bron, she can’t help but feel immeasurably pleased for him.

All she wants is for him to be happy, and if this woman makes him happy, that is enough for her.

* * *

 The next time he leaves for the Western Approach, Fiona is both more and less afraid than the last time.

She’s afraid because he’s going to face the Wardens at Adamant, because the Inquisition is expecting a tough fight and heavy losses. But this time that fear is tempered because she _knows_ that he’s not alone. He has the full support of the Inquisition’s army behind him. He has friends, _good_ friends, _loyal_ friends. They will keep him safe. Just like her fellow wardens used to keep her safe – at Kul-Baras and Ortan Thaig – now Alistair has his own comrades in arms to watch his back.

And despite her fear, she knows that she just has to have faith. Faith in his abilities as a soldier; faith in the abilities of the Inquisition’s army. Because she’s sure he’ll come back safe and sound, just like last time. She’s sure of it.

But then he – _doesn’t_.

The Inquisition returns but Alistair doesn’t.

When the news finally reaches her, she can feel her heart stop, her chest feeling suddenly leaden, but at the same time she can feel the roar of blood pounding in her ears. It’s such a cacophony of conflicted feelings, it’s like her body is about to be ripped in two. 

And no one thinks to come and explain it to her – _why would they_? To the outside observer, Fiona has no particular friendship with Alistair. They speak only on occasion, in passing; he has other, far more important friendships within the fortress’s walls. So instead she just has to pick up bits and pieces from the gossip that circulates Skyhold, trying to string it into some semblance of a narrative. He confronted a Venatori leader, she hears, fought an Archdemon atop the Keep of Adamant, fell into the Fade, then _sacrificed himself to save the Inquisitor_. 

The story is so ridiculous she can scarcely believe it. Apart from the bit about sacrifice – that bit she can believe. Because, as much as he tries to deny it, Alistair is a Warden, and Wardens know about sacrifice. But even were he not a Warden, Alistair is still a _good man_. She’s sure of it – sure form their conversations, from what she’s heard of him, from the intensity of his relationships with the people around him. He is a good man; and good men put the wellbeing of others before their own. Of course Alistair sacrificed himself for the Inquisitor. That bit she can believe.

It’s an honourable way to go – fighting for a righteous cause, sacrificing oneself to save others.

Not that it makes it hurt any less.

And – _fuck_ – does it hurt. 

The pain is only slightly lessened when she hears that Bron too stayed behind. At least her son didn’t die alone. And though she’s never been particularly enamoured with Bron, she finds herself inordinately grateful to the woman for doing what Fiona could not – for being there for Alistair, for supporting him, for loving him, for giving her life to be with him at the end of his. 

Bron is a better woman than she and Fiona feels ashamed.

No parent is supposed to out-live their child.

Fiona can’t stay at Skyhold – not now. She probably never deserved to be there in the first place. She’d failed the Wardens, when she’d lost her connection to the Darkspawn and been forced to leave. She’d failed the mages, by enslaving them to the Venatori, by helping a Darkspawn Magister in his quest for Thedas’s destruction.

And now she’s failed her son.

And it wasn’t just _one_ failure – it was a _hundred_ little failures throughout his whole life. She’d failed him when she’d given him away. Failed him when she’d let Arl Eamon throw him out. Failed him when she’d let him become a Warden. Failed him when she’d stood idly by as he was exiled. She thought she’d been protecting him by letting him believe that his mother was dead – but maybe she was just protecting herself? Maybe it was just _easier_ to give him away and keep him at a distance.

And now he is dead.

And she will never be able to make up for what she did, or for the things she didn't do.

No – she can’t stay at Skyhold. No one else should suffer for her failures. 

* * *

 

Fiona’s in the library when the Inquisition’s spymaster suddenly rushes passed, a letter gripped firmly in her hands and a grin on her face. She’s never seen Leliana look like that before – so openly joyful, so full of bristling hope. Normally she’s cold, clipped in her mannerisms and oddly formal (and when Fiona looks at Leliana, she can see where Bron learned her cool composure). It’s such a rapid change from Leliana’s previous countenance, so far removed from the utter devastation that had overcome Leliana upon learning of her prodigy’s demise. To see her so suddenly changed, Fiona is immediately intrigued.

She doesn’t know why she follows Leliana. After all, it's not like she cares about Inquisition news anymore; she’s already decided to leave Skyhold, even packed her bags already! She should have left days ago except she's still trying to decide whether she should tell anyone of her departure or just steal away without a word. But for some reason she follows the spymaster as she rushes through the library and down the spiral stairs, a strange compulsion urging her feet to hurry. 

She doesn’t enter the room when Leliana hurries into Josephine’s office, just stands outside the door, pushing it slightly ajar so she can better hear the women’s conversation. And though she can’t hear everything being discussed, she can hear enough. There’s news from Scout Harding, Leliana says, in the Hinterlands Basin, and her voice is so full of excitement that her tongue is tripping over her words. And then there’s some sentences Fiona doesn’t catch, and then –

_Alistair is alive._

Fiona’s heart skips a beat as she listens to Leliana’s excited babbling, the news so unexpected and so _utterly glorious_ that she can barely believe it – _Alistair is alive, and Bron is alive,_ and they’ve escaped the Fade and they’re _on their way home_.

Josephine gives a little shriek of excitement as she jumps from her chair and the sound is enough to hide Fiona’s own vocal outburst of joy. An incredulous laugh bubbles from her throat, followed by a contented sigh, and Fiona rests her hand on her chest as if she can somehow stop the urgent pounding of her heart against her ribcage just by urging it so. The Inquisitor’s advisers chat excitedly for a few moments before Josephine announces that they must find the Inquisitor at once to pass on the good news. Fiona knows that’s her cue to leave, scurrying down the corridor before the women can discover their eavesdropper.

And as Fiona walks back to her usual spot in the library, feet unsteady as her limbs tremble with emotions, she’s trying to calculate how long it takes to travel from the Hinterlands Basin to Skyhold. A week? Less if the weather is good and the horses fast?

He’ll be home in a week! Her son is alive – _and he’s coming home_!  

* * *

 

There’s a grand fanfare when the Inquisition’s wayward members return. Alistair and Bron are now legends throughout the fortress – great heroes who sacrificed themselves to save the Inquisition, who walked bodily in the Fade and survived – and a large crowd of people assemble to great them in Skyhold’s wide courtyard.

Fiona goes down too – desperate to catch sight of Alistair (and she won’t really believe he’s escaped the Fade until she sees him with her own two eyes) – but she keeps her distance, trying not to appear too eager, trying not to bring too much attention to herself. And while the crowd is bursting with excited chatter, Fiona is just thrumming with tightly wound anticipation, growing increasingly impatient, wondering how long it will take for Alistair and Bron to reach Skyhold’s gates after the watchtower guard’s first announcement that he could see them approaching.

When they do finally appear through the gates, there’s a huge uproar from the crowd, chanting and cheering and waving as Alistair and Bron ride through the writhing masses. Both seem immensely uncomfortable under the attention, though Alistair tries to smile and stiffly wave in gratitude. Once they dismount, they’re quickly led away, whisked away by Leliana and Josephine into the main Keep, undoubtedly to give the Inquisitor some sort of debriefing.

Fiona can’t help but resent their speedy departure, hustled away before she’d had the chance to even speak to her son. But then at least she’s _seen_ him – and he’s whole and he’s healthy and he looks happy (and a vast improvement on Bron who’d appeared pale and unsteady on her mount, _poor thing_ ).

But she manages to hold her resentment in check, manages to largely ignore her still thrumming impatience, until she has the opportunity to see him later that night in Skyhold’s Great Hall. Josephine has thrown together an impromptu celebration and the tables are strewn with fanciful platters of food and drink, the Inquisitor’s thrown pushed aside to make space on the raised dais for a band. And though the Hall is crowded with revellers, Fiona easily pushes through the drunken throngs until she finds Alistair sitting at a table surrounded by his friends. She recognises most of the faces, though she’s ignorant of most of the names (Varric is one, Harding she thinks is another – of course she recognises Bron).

“Excuse me,” she says, pushing her way to Alistair’s side.

“Grant Enchanter Fiona,” he says by way of greeting and though she’s sure he means nothing by it, the title still smarts. With the Circles gone, she’s not really much of a Grand Enchanter anymore.

“I just wanted to say… how relieved I am to see that you’ve returned to Skyhold safely. When I heard what had happened…” she trails off, uncertain how to continue. Of course she can’t confess how she’d reall felt when she’d heard about what had happened – how her soul had withered, how her heart had stiffened and turned heavy. “To be lost forever in the Fade is a terrible fate – one that I am glad you have avoided. 

“Me too!” he replies cheerfully, raising his tankard to his companions who all raise theirs and cheer in response.

She can’t help but smile at the revelry – at the clear joy on his face and the faces of his companions.

“I was hoping,” she ventures, feeling suddenly bold, “that you would stop by the library some time. I have a… um… deep interest in the Fade and… ugh… it would be very fascinating to hear about your experience.” 

It’s a lie, of course – she doesn’t have a vast interest in the Fade – had had enough of the Fade after she’d only narrowly escaped its miserable clutches as a young Warden.

“Of course,” he replies with his usual geniality, “it would be my pleasure.”

He’s probably being polite – she’s not sure talking to a strange mage about the Fade is really anyone’s idea of pleasurable – but she’s just grateful for the chance to talk to him… somewhere more quiet and private than the bustling Great Hall.

She doesn’t stick around for the night’s frivolities. Too much noise, too many people. Even after all this time, she still doesn’t feel entirely comfortable with the Inquisition.

No – she’ll leave them to their party and instead privately relish in her own joy that her son, _her precious son_ , has been returned to her.

* * *

Alistair keeps his promise, as she knew he would, coming to the library the very next day with a smile on his face (and some deep shadows under his eyes, she notes – clearly the previous night had been a late one).

“Are you well?” she asks

“Yes! Absolutely! Just… tired,” he responds with a casual shrug and a bashful smile.

“Late night?”

He chuckles, looking oddly pleased with himself. “Yeah”

“And Bron? She is well too.”

His smile falters a little then. “She’s… all right. She was injured very badly in the Fade and she’s… well, she’s improving. But she still tires easily. I think last night was a bit… much for her. But she’s resting now – your mage insisted on it.”

“ _My_ mage?” 

“Steve – he was with Scout Harding’s scouting party. He saved Bron’s life – he is… an extraordinarily talented mage.”

“Is he?” she asks, trying to mask her astonishment for fear of appearing rude. Fiona had never really dealt with Steve, was only aware of his existence because of how often the other mages complained about his incessant chatter. “I’m glad he was there to help. I can’t… imagine what it must have been like for you. To see your friend gravely hurt, to walk _physically_ in the Fade. To stay behind knowing that escape was impossible.” 

“Well…” he drawls smugly, “not _quite_ impossible.” 

She smiles, charmed by his smug little smirk. “Please, _go on_. I’m fascinated to hear about how you escaped.”

His story is not as she expected – both grander and more mundane than what she’d imagined. He tells her about the Nightmare, about the demons and the great floating mountains in the sky. She’d expected that bit – was well aware of the dangers lurking in the voidless spaces of the Fade. But she’s surprised to hear about the strange tableaus of furniture and abandoned objects, of lost letters and sputtering candles. She’d imagined the Fade to be a twisted land of unceasing horrors and constant terror, she hadn’t expected it to be so – mundanely unsettling. 

He seems to droop as he talks of the Fade, folding in on himself, deflating as if the words are stealing the very air from his lungs, and so she asks him about the Hinterlands Basin instead, hoping that a change in subject will help to revive him. At first he seems surprised by the sudden change in subject but then he seems happy to indulge her, to tell her of the towering trees and majestic cliffs he’d encountered upon his escape. She’s relieved to see his body noticeably perk up as he talks, his sunken cheeks filling out once more as he smiles.

Keen to keep the conversation flowing, she asks him about his friendship with the Champion, then about his time living in Kirkwall. She’s well aware that she’s never spoken to him for this long before, never learned this much about him, and she’s just desperate to keep the conversation alive for as long as possible.

Soon the hours have flown passed, and they’ve both sunk to the floor, backs pressed against the bookshelves, both seemingly oblivious to how uncomfortable the floorboards feel beneath their crossed legs.

_This is nice_ , she thinks, to be so engrossed in stories, to finally have a real conversation with her son.

When Alistair finally realises how long they’ve been talking, he looks suddenly embarrassed, as if ashamed that he’s taken so much of her time. And she’s not sure how to tell him that he could _never_ be a waste of her time. She would gladly wile away all the hours of the day to make up for all the hours she wasn’t there for him.

But he needs to check in on Bron, he says, and he’s meeting Varric in the Herald’s Rest later. But he’s had a lovely afternoon, he insists, and he’d be happy to talk to Fiona again should she want to know anything else about the Fade.

“I’d like that,” she says, trying to smile sweetly, not grin inanely, as he gives her a polite little bow and strides quickly out of the library.

“Maybe we could have lunch some time,” she suddenly blurts and Alistair stops in his tracks to turn to face her. “I can tell you more about my time with the Wardens, and about Duncan too.”

He smiles, boyish and eager, and Fiona’s heart leaps with joy. “I’d like that.”

* * *

Things are _different_ now – pleasant, _perfect_.

They talk, meeting every week for their regular lunch date (as long as Alistair isn’t away on a mission with the Wardens), discussing everything from history to magic to Skyhold gossip. Well… _almost_ everything.

Fiona’s not sure whether she’ll ever tell him that she’s his mother. And perhaps that’s cowardly – but she’s not sure whether her admission would help or hurt him. Would her admission merely be a way to alleviate her own guilt for having abandoned him. Is she being selfish in seeking confession and absolution? Or would it actually help Alistair to know who she is?

It’s a difficult question – one she needs more time to ponder – and when she’s not carrying out her duties in advising the Inquisitor, or providing counsel and mentorship to the mages, she likes to spend time by herself in the mage’s tower to contemplate her future (and that in itself is a luxury she’s never had before; to be able to think about her future, to think of the course she might _herself_ navigate). The other mages must be able to tell that something is on her mind because they give her a wide berth when they see her in the tower, leaving her to study her books or simply sit and think without interruption.

She’s sitting alone at a long table peppered with books she’s not really reading when Bron unexpectedly enters the mage’s tower. Fiona’s pretty sure Bron has never been to this part of Skyhold before and her entrance immediately draws her attention. In fact, very few non-mages ever venture into the mage’s tower at all (apart from the Inquisitor, who dutifully visits the mages whenever she returns from her travels).

Bron looks a little awkward, not that Fiona can easily tell under her usual mask of casual indifference, but her posture is a little bowed, as if she’s trying to be as little of an intrusion as possible. It’s an unusual sight, Bron usually strides through Skyhold with confidence and ease, and Fiona suspects that Bron is not the type to be shy. Her apparent discomfort must stem from something else – perhaps a general distaste of mages? But then… Bron’s never expressed anti-mage sentiments before.

“Can I help you?” Fiona asks as Bron walks slowly around the periphery of the room.

“Ugh… maybe?” she answers unsteadily, then steps briskly toward Fiona before stopping at a surprisingly close distance (perhaps hoping for some privacy). “I need a healer and I was… well… I was wondering whether Steve was here.”

“No, I’m afraid he’s not here. Perhaps _I_ can help – are you hurt?”

“Oh no,” she waves her hands dismissively, “it’s… silly. I don’t want to waste your time – it’s not important.”

Bron turns to walk away but Fiona raises her hand to stop her.

“Wait,” Fiona calls, “let me take a look at you. You’re not wasting my time – honestly.”

Fiona’s words seem to ease Bron’s discomfort somewhat and she turns back toward her, smiling tentatively, perhaps relieved.

“I was burnt – about a week ago,” she explains as she raises her hand to rest against her ribcage, “I treated it with a salve but… well… it still looks quite angry.”

Looking at Bron now, her awkward smile, her curled posture, Fiona thinks she might finally understand – Bron’s not shy, she’s _proud_. She’d been injured, had hoped to just deal with it herself, and is now deeply reluctant to find herself seeking out assistance.

Fiona nods her head in what she hopes is a reassuring gesture. “Well let’s take a look at it then – I can almost certainly help.” 

Fiona could easily fob her off, of course, tell her to find Steve or suggest any of the other mages who are skilled at healing. But this is Bron, this is _Alistair’s_ Bron – and she’s hurt, and she’s embarrassed – and Fiona feels that it is her duty to put the young woman at ease.

Bron steps back a bit and starts unbuttoning the bottom half of her shirt, from just below her breastband to the bottom, and as she pulls the shirt open, Fiona can see the mottled red of singed skin. Bron was right in describing the burn as _angry_ – it’s a large wound, covering the lowest few ribs then stretching across her stomach and to the side of her waist, marring her skin in a puckered, blistering red. 

The burn looks pretty grim, undoubtedly very painful, but while Fiona is trying desperately to concentrate on Bron’s mottled, red skin – she finds that she’s just _too distracted_ by what’s dangling in front of it.

Bron wears a metal chain around her neck, tucked into her shirt so that it rests against her skin, with the pendant at the end of the chain resting just below her breastband. The pendant dangles languorously in front of the burn, glinting occasionally as it catches the soft candlelight of the tower. It’s a beautifully crafted piece of jewellery, cast from silver, the pendant inset with swirling blue enamel, and Fiona immediately recognises it. 

She immediately recognises it _because it’s hers_.

It’s _her_ amulet. The one she gave her infant son as she’d handed him over to Arl Eamon.

She’d wanted him to have _something_ of hers, to have some tangible proof that he’d had a mother, that she was a real _flesh-and-blood woman_ who’d loved him and parted ways with him only because it was necessary. 

She’d often wondered whether he’d kept it, whether he’d treasured it, whether he’d looked at it and thought of her.

_And now she knows_.

He _has_ kept it – for all these years, all these decades.

And now he’s given it to Bron.

Fiona doesn’t realise that she’s staring until she notices Bron shift uncomfortably, one hand raising to cover the pendant in an almost protective gesture.

“I didn’t mean to stare,” Fiona stammers, “it’s just… it’s a beautiful piece.”

Bron visibly relaxes then, her stance softening and her hand coming to rest under the pendant so that it sits in her palm. “Thank you,” she responds, “it was a gift.”

And then a smile breaks out across her face, wide and toothy and endearingly crooked. Her cheeks are bunched, her eyes sparkling with warmth, and Fiona is astonished at how transformed Bron looks. She’s never seen the young woman look so happy, wistful and fond. 

If this is the woman Alistair sees – no wonder he is so in love with her.

“From someone special?” Fiona prods gently.

A small blush blossoms across Bron’s rounded cheeks, and like the smile this too looks strange on a face more accustomed to calm neutrality. “Yes.” 

Huh – _well isn’t that wonderful_ , Fiona thinks, and she decides it’s perhaps time to banish some of her previous reservations regarding Bron. So what if the woman is slightly odd? Fiona supposes there’s nothing _that_ peculiar with being quiet and thoughtful. And Bron _did_ sacrifice her life to stay in the Fade with Alistair, choosing to die by his side than live a long life without him. And this amulet around her neck seems, to Fiona at least, to be incontrovertible proof of Alistair’s affection for her.

And if Alistair loves this woman, Fiona supposes that she should as well.

“How marvellous,” Fiona says with a smile and she’s pleased to see Bron nodding at her appreciatively, her expression suddenly appearing more open and less guarded that Fiona has ever seen.

“Now let’s see what I can do about this burn,” she continues as she raises her hand to hover above Bron’s skin. 

There’s a momentary pause as Fiona summons her magic, tugging at the wisps and whorls of the veil until she can feel that familiar, tingling warmth in the palm of her hand. She pushes out with her mind, focusing her thoughts on Bron, then lets the magic pool from her hands and into Bron’s skin. A wave of hazy blue falls from Fiona’s fingertips, lapping across Bron’s stomach like the morning mists rolling across the sea to the shore.

Bron suck in a breath, her whole body tensing under the peculiar sensations, and Fiona coos nonsense words soothingly. 

When the spell is cast, the tendrils of blue disappearing into nothingness, Bron sweeps her hands tentatively over where the burn used to be. “It feels like normal,” she comments airily.

Fiona chuckles. “Did you expect it to feel anything other than normal?”

“I suppose not,” Bron replies with a short puff of amusement.

Suddenly the door to the mage’s tower opens with a clang and a somewhat out-of-breath Alistair rushes in. He stands bemusedly just beyond the threshold of the door for a moment before his eyes fall on Bron’s somewhat startled face and he scurries forward toward her.

“Are you all right?” he asks when he’s closer, and from the redness in his cheeks and the slight sheen of sweat across his brow, Fiona deduces that he’s come to the tower at quite a rush.

“Of course I am,” Bron replies with her usual brusqueness, “why wouldn’t I be?”

“Moira said that you’d gone to the mage’s tower for healing. I was worried you’d been hurt,” he explains, eyes scanning her over from head to toe as if in search of some mortal wound.

“It’s nothing,” she says with a dismissive wave of her hand, “I just thought I’d have someone take a look at that burn.” She gestures at her now smooth stomach, smiling serenely in what is perhaps intended to alleviate Alistair’s obvious concern.

He reaches out with one hand to rake his fingertips across Bron’s stomach and there’s a sudden intake of breath as Alistair’s fingers brush against her skin. Then she playfully swots his hand away, frowning at him with exaggerated petulance, and then the two of them are giggling almost childishly.

It’s such an oddly intimate scene, Fiona thinks, the two of them standing so close together, laughing at complete ease, and she can’t help but feel like she’s intruding.

Alistair buttons up Bron’s shirt then tucks the front into her trousers. “Good as new,” he comments with a smile.

Bron smiles at Alistair goofily in return then gives Fiona a short, professional nod as she thanks her. 

“It was my pleasure,” Fiona replies earnestly, giving the two of them a beaming smile to show her sincerity.

“Come on,” Alistair says as he takes Bron’s arm to lead her out of the tower, “Moira and Varric are waiting in the Great Hall to have lunch with us.”

The two walk passed Fiona toward the door, arms enjoined, twin contented smiles upon their faces, when suddenly they stop, and Alistair cranes his neck to look at Fiona over his shoulder. “Would you like to join us, Grand Enchanter?”

Oh – now that’s unexpected.

It’s such a simple question – just an invitation to a casual lunch – but in that moment it seems like _so much more_. It seems like a beginning, a new chapter in Fiona’s life, a chapter in which Fiona no longer watches her son from a distance but plays an active part in his life. Now she can get to know him, now she can share some of her past, her history with him. She can watch him grow as a person, she can watch him grow deeper and deeper in love. Maybe she can watch him start a family, a family in which she can play a role, however small.

Now Fiona has a chance to fix her mistakes, to make amends for all those years her son was deprived of his mother. She has her chance and Fiona is not going to miss it.

She nods, stepping forward with an outstretched arm. “I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


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